


Aftermath

by BlackQat



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Andorian, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Combat, Comfort Sex, Divergence from Discovery canon, Divergence from ST AU Kelvin Timeline canon, F/M, Fluff, Grief, Heavy Angst, Humor, Loneliness, PTSD, Recovery, Revolution, Torture, hurt-comfort, impossible odds, isd, life - Freeform, the MU is a cruel place, to heck with canon anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackQat/pseuds/BlackQat
Summary: Katrina Cornwell is dealing with the aftermath of the Klingon-Federation war.And in another part of reality, Gabriel Lorca is dealing with a lot, too.A/N - I am currently REWRITING this story, so when I am a few chapters in, I will take this down and start putting up the new.





	1. Heartbreak All Over

**Author's Note:**

> **"Star Trek" and "Star Trek Discovery" are property of Paramount and CBSAA. This work is not intended for profit, nor to infringe on copyrights; it is for entertainment alone.**
> 
>  
> 
> Takes place in my "Two Gifts" universe: Prime Lorca and Prime Cornwell are a long-time couple  
> AU characters from Kelvin Timeline, divergence from canon  
> Divergence from Discovery canon
> 
> Characters from "Human Nature II" are used with permission of LadyFangs

San Francisco, 2257

Katrina Cornwell is back in San Francisco after witnessing weeks, months of heartbreak all over the Federation. She’s seeing a counselor at Starfleet Medical. Cornwell’s one of thousands seeking help for PTSD after the massive number of Klingon attacks over the last year of the war: no longer war as Starfleet knew it. Once the twenty-four Klingon Houses splintered, it was one terrorist attack after another, with horrifying casualties, Houses vying for supremacy.

And now she knows Gabriel is dead. She’s as devastated by this death as by the thousands of Starfleet personnel and the tens of thousands of colonists and residents of various Federation member planets.

She feels almost guilty for so mourning Gabriel’s death in comparison to such losses. But as Dr Mitalle  has reminded her, Gabriel’s absence affects a huge part of Kat’s personal life. When she’s home alone, or in her office, and on the verge of tears, she thinks either of Dr Mitalle’s compassionate, dark Betazoid eyes, or Gabriel, smiling at her during hikes or in their intimate moments, of him kidding around with Somchai, their Siamese cat.

Various friends of hers and Gabriel’s come to stay with Somchai when Katrina’s gone on site visits or conferences; they actually plan a schedule for cat-sitting. He’s friendly and playful, so is popular with her relatives and pals. Somchai has stayed very close to Katrina since she returned home. He’s grown used to her bouts of weeping and curls up in her lap or on her chest, purring comfort to her. He misses Gabriel too, and goes to spots where he liked to sit reading, or his side of the bed, or to the office. At first he meowed long and loudly as if calling him, then seemed to understand Gabriel would not return.

 Kat wraps up in the robes Gabriel brought back for them from various deployments. At first she could still smell his scent in his sweaters and shirts and she’d wear them, but over time, the scents have faded. He left a bottle of aftershave which she sometimes dabs on her wrists. Sometimes it hurts too much to think of him at all and she buries herself in work, reassigning the remaining members of Starfleet to different starbases and ships, spreading out the experienced people, recruiting new professionals like doctors and psychologists and scientists, increasing class sizes at Starfleet Academy.

Recruiting is quite easy nowadays; after the war people are frightened of alien incursions, but thanks to Cornwell’s initial rapprochement and subsequent dealings with L’Rell, the Klingons and the Federation are temporarily at peace. The new Klingon Chancellor understands the waste of war as well as Cornwell does. There are plenty of people from Federation worlds who want to defend their home planets and colonies, protect what the Federation stands for, and continue to explore the unknown. Kat is impressed with their bravery after the war, signing up for adventures.

She remembers herself, equally adventurous at that age, and although she still thrills to the sight of a starfield outside a viewport, the memory of her younger self also makes her sad. Gabriel was a large part of her 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s. She’s 58 but feels ages older. She didn’t swear much, before the war, but now it’s the “god-damn war.”

After a desultory dinner, she reviews some reports and tomorrow’s schedule, sighing; meetings seem like a waste of time to her, but they’re held frequently these days. Admirals reassuring themselves, she supposes. That they ran the war as best they could. That they’re not incompetent, or Starfleet, impotent.

She and Somchai repair to the balcony where Kat sips some hot coffee with a dash of whisky, looking at the Golden Gate Bridge alight in the dark. “Corrected coffee,” as her Irish aunt Eileen used to say.

Kat hasn’t sat out here with morning coffee since she heard about Gabriel. It was their ritual, and it’s too painful for her to think of it never happening again. She’s sure that, in time, the urgent pain will pass, but right now she’s self-protective. Somchai hops down from the safety ledge and up to curl in her lap. She pets him absently, thinking about the beginning of her love affair with Gabriel. How tender he was with her. He always was tender, and jocular, even goofy, sometimes quiet. He seldom assumed his salty captain demeanor except when they discussed or argued Starfleet policy. But she loved all the parts of his personality, even the challenging ones, because they were _his_.

The way his voice sounded at various times. A low burr when he was being romantic, a stentorian voice when they argued, a soft voice when he was soothing her or expressing his devotion, that laugh, his strong heartbeat when they curled up together … she puts her head back as tears start, breathing through the moment, letting her eyes stream, just feeling the sadness as she’s advised others to do, as she’s been advised to do, in these hard times. Too many losses. So many deaths of good friends. She’s not alone, there is a world full of aching hearts, a Headquarters full, a pub full, a street full, a park full.

She’s been hesitating about hiking, but thinks it’s probably a good idea now she’s had some time. She can mourn in the places they loved best, pay tribute to his memory as she looks at the mountains, at the redwoods, at the ocean. Tomorrow is a day off; she’s going to go hiking, damn it. It’s time to be out in nature, where she loves to be.

Sleepy now, she goes to bed, Somchai curled by her on Gabriel’s pillow. She’s deeply asleep when she wakes on a scream. A terrible dream of the prison ship, a Klingon guard looming over her with a club that flexed.  He beat the bottoms of her feet this time. Other times her spine, or chest, or lower abdomen. It was like a torturous workout routine:  one day, 100 reps on abs, another day, legs … in the nightmares she screams, as she never did there. Instead she gritted her teeth so hard she needed restorative dental work. Somchai kneads on her stomach, his paws soft, but Kat can’t get back to sleep.

She wonders what Gabriel went through in that place she now calls the Otherwhere. Where cruelty is the order of things; suspicion, torture, execution. She imagines spending two years in that Klingon prison. But at least there you knew who your enemies were.

Going out to the living room where they spent many quiet evenings reading or had the occasional party, Kat opens the whisky and raises the bottle in a silent toast, downs a burning gulp, then takes a sip at a time, folding her arms, walking slowly around, looking at their pictures together. What a beautiful smile he had. And his lovely eyes, like tropical waters. _God, when will I stop crying, Gabriel? I know you wouldn’t want me to be so sad, but I can’t help myself. Is it possible you’re still out there? The savagery of that place, could you, would you survive? I know you’d do your best. I miss you so much. I miss your kisses, your strong arms, your solidity, the way you stroked my hair._

She sits on the floor now, by Gabe’s Mama Lurlene’s ancient collection of jazz records, puts the bottle down, and sobs for a good while, “ugly-crying,” as his birth mom Mildred puts it. It wears her out; Kat drinks a glass of water, washes her face and goes back to bed. Acknowledging her with a slow blink of his turquoise eyes, Somchai goes back to sleep, purring, she would swear, just to soothe her.

.

Kat and Gabriel are embracing in the water at the beach, then making love on the blanket they’ve spread on the sand. He’s murmuring in her ear, kissing her temples, her face, her mouth; they’re going slowly but working up a sweat. Her hips are tilted back, her knees over his shoulders, Gabe’s deep inner strokes fulfilling her, In her sleep, Kat can feel herself come, can feel his warmth in her and his arms around her, his breath in her ear, “I love you, my Kat,” and when she wakes, she _knows_.

He lives.

 


	2. A Rough Transition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SonriaCat [aka "the Ripper"] and LadyFangs for Beta-ing. I mean that nickname affectionately, Cat.

He’s had a rough transition when he materializes onboard the Buran. An ion storm was coming into the space around Prior’s World, and materializing, he gets a flash of Buran’s transporter room, and now is there again. But the transporter room is dark. Darker, anyway. The crew he sees are all humans, and none are familiar to him. Phlaxita, the Denobulan transporter technician who beamed him down to Prior’s World, is nowhere to be seen.

Lorca is surprised to note grim faces, and … black uniforms. Everyone gives him a Roman Legion-style salute, fist to the chest, arm straightening. “Long live the Empire!” He returns it. And a good thing, because he feels an unfamiliar vibe from the Buran crewmembers, an undercurrent of fear in everyone. Fear covering hostility. The captain glances down; his uniform is black too, and instead of a tactical vest there’s a carved gold breastplate covering his torso. He would marvel at its intricacy, but based on the nasty atmosphere, sets his mouth in a thin line and looks up frowning.

“What the hell are you staring at,” he snaps. “Back to work. I’m going to my quarters.”

He strides briskly there. The passageways are quite changed, golden instead of the usual brushed chrome look. Clearly he is on a different vessel. But …“Empire”?  Is this some elaborate Section 31 ruse? Is he in a dream state in the transporter buffer?

But it’s the Buran, or at least in her same class; the ship’s configuration is exactly the same, the trip from his beam-in point to his quarters exactly as long. The code at the door is the same, but the quarters, when the door opens, are quite … luxurious. There are _draperies_. And silken pillows.

And a nude Commander Ellen Landry, uncoiling from a couch facing the viewport, where the couch’s back has blocked her from his view. Quite attractive, and fighting fit, that would be Landry, but he’s never seen her in anything smaller than her uniform and has to cover his shock. He forcibly curbs his impulse to burst out with: “Landry, what the hell!”

Her dark eyes are devouring as she sways toward him. He almost lowers his eyes in embarrassment; instead, he raises his hands, trying to keep his eyes on hers, and assumes a rueful smile. “Sorry, Landr – Ellen, I’m too tired to do anything right now. I feel like I was shot at and missed, and shit at and hit.”

She runs a hand down his arm, diagonally across his chest, and takes his hand, raising it up to the level of her breast— Lorca steps back, frowning, and Landry raises a skeptical eyebrow, pursing her lips. “You want me gone?” He’s never noticed what angular beauty her face has.

He nods, rubbing his forehead for effect. “Yeah. For now. Gotta rest up.”

Landry takes her time putting on her uniform, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at him, eyes smoldering, and needs extra time with her boots: they’re a different type than the Starfleet issue Lorca wore down to Prior’s world. They’re like the ones he’s wearing now. Leather, buckled, higher than …  

She comes over to him, form-fitting gold breastplate in hand. “Would you mind doing this, or should I call a slave?” _A slave?!_ As he helps her into it, he mentally counts to keep his breath, and his hands, steady. This is not the Ellen Landry he knows. She’s had a spark of interest in him, but he’s never had to turn away an advance.

_Dear God, let me not fuck this up, whatever this is._

Landry turns to him, puts her hands on his waist and suggestively slides them down his hips, looking up into his face. He smiles awkwardly, then realizes she would not expect such a response. He lifts his eyebrows suggestively and rasps, “Later,” as if he’s too aroused to speak normally.

She gives him a look before she walks out, one he can’t interpret. The door rolls shut behind her. Was it malicious? Suspicious? Sensual?

_Well, what the fuck do I do now?_

Information. That’s what he needs first. Or to take off this breastplate. Both.

“Computer.” He stops for a beat. The suspicion he’s encountered so far leads him to think every comm is monitored for some higher-up to examine. “… Give me this month’s statistics report.” 

“State command code.”

He pauses, then says, “Lorca Alpha 495 Delta.” Will it work?

“Current monthly report for Imperial Starship Buran. Seventeen rebel ships destroyed, one thousand thirty-two prisoners taken, forty-eight executions. Prisoners distributed to planet Vulcan, Andor, and Terra, in groups of two hundred forty-six for slave labor.”

  _Oh, my god. The power of warp drive and advanced weapons, with no regulation, in service to an Emperor?_ He takes a deep breath, trying to stop the shaking in his core.

“Planets surveyed for assets to the Empire: Thirty-four; exploitable resources on twenty-nine. Exploitable sentient resources on thirty-three. Further details available, do you wish them now?”

“N-no,” says Lorca, fumbling at the breastplate with shaking hands. He manages to get it off, letting it fall to the floor. He sinks onto the couch, checking out his boots, and begins unbuckling them. No Starfleet arrowhead quick-release fasteners here.

Implacably the statistics continue: “Six executions of ISS Buran officers, for insubordination or disloyal speech: Ensign Boland, Ensign Corrigan, Ensign DeMarchi, Ensign Dinesh, Lieutenant Jarombek, Lieutenant Xhiang.”

_Disloyal speech!?_

“Ship’s Systems and Materiel: twelve phaser cannons working, two under repair; photon torpedos, number, 226; Engineering reports repairs to warp nacelle number three are proceeding apace; replicators and galley are functional. Captain’s mess has only two Kelpiens remaining in livestock stores, three Gorn;  two steers, five Cetarian Eels; seventeen Legarian langoustines; eight kilos of taba root, two of masrada; three kilos Ventiane lettuces; four—”

“Stop. Jesus,” Lorca mutters. _Kelpiens? Gorn? What kind of people eat sentients? This is nothing like home. Whatever this is, it sure isn’t like any kind of Starfleet I know. It’s like an antithesis. Or a nightmare._

His head is pounding in earnest now. “Computer. Pain relievers and a glass of water.”

“Do you wish narcotic or non-narcotic?”

“Non-narcotic.” As if he’d dare risk his awareness in this bizarre situation!

The replicator’s in the same place, but the little door is golden, or polished brass—there is gold trim and velvet everywhere—his bed is curtained off from the rest of his quarters by heavy silk drapes. He swallows his pills and downs the entire glass of water, peeking into the bed … chamber? It’s not larger than his own, but again, more ornate, and instead of the sleek sculptures he has in his quarters, these are sculptures that look as if wrought from a nightmare. People depicted in agony, or torturous lust.

Lorca sinks wearily down onto the bed. _What now? A shower. Maybe that’ll help clear my mind._ He had a dusty time on Prior’s World, but he didn’t feel really dirty until after a few minutes here, in the captain’s quarters.

.

Refreshed, he steps out of the shower, to find a Kelpien male waiting, with a towel ready to wrap around him. “Forgive me, master—”

“-- _Captain_ ,” Lorca snaps.

A click of surprise comes from the Kelpien’s mouth. “… Captain. Forgive me; Commander Landry asked me to leave, earlier. I did not know—”

“Spare me,” says Lorca, inhabiting a certainly disagreeable character. He motions the servant away, drying himself. _Chrissakes, they even have people to dry them off? Slaves? What the hell IS this?_

He dismisses the Kelpien, and queries the computer again, this time reviewing personal logs. What he learns about Captain Lorca—from “Captain Lorca”—chills him to the marrow. Musings of a man who views murder, enslavement, genocide, paranoia, and personal manipulation as the usual order of business.

Then, a holovid begins. He’s staring at an image of himself-not-himself, by the standing desk in his Ready Room. The eyes are cold and distant, then focus and soften. He’s saying, “Michael, I miss you. I’m in deep shit with the Emp—with your mother. She thinks I killed you, damn her. I hope we find each other before she gets to me, I hear she’s hunting me down on Charon now; they succeeded with the mycelial drive and launched the thing a while back. That ship has greater power than we’ve ever seen, so I’m prepared for anything. She may kill me, but I’ll do my damndest to kill her first.

“You and I are never going to together as long as she’s alive. If this is the last you hear of me, I love you, Michael. You would have been my queen.” The other Lorca’s eyes are gleaming and he reaches out; the recording ends.

Lorca sighs, shaken. _I’m feeling my way through the dark, here. Deep and dangerous waters._

_._

“Captain to the bridge. ISS Charon is signaling.”

 _Showtime, god help me._ “I’m on my way.” He hastily buckles on his boots again and adds the gold breastplate to his black uniform, fastening it as he walks quickly to the command center. _Charon, from the ancient myth. Hope I don’t end up across the River Styx._

He’s assembled his thoughts by the time he steps onto the bridge, and is ready when he sees the officers looking at him expectantly. “On screen,” he says, mentally bracing himself.

Emperor Philippa Georgiou appears, resplendent in a high-collared golden coat flowing in a molten train  behind her, worn over the black uniform, with an ornate gold breastplate covering her torso. She looks at him coldly, waiting for something. He inclines his head in a gesture of respect. She frowns, raising her chin, and says, “Do you not know how to greet your Emperor? Or have you forgotten me in your quest for power?”

He gives the salute they gave him when he came aboard, saying “Long live the Empi-- Emperor!”

“Do you not _bow_ to your Emperor, Lorca?”

He renders the bow of a courtier, with a flourish of his hand. _Too much,_ he guesses, for Georgiou’s lips tighten with displeasure.

“How _dare_ you offer a loyalist’s salute! And in such an _elaborate_ manner as to be sarcastic. You betrayed me in the worst way. A ‘loyal’ general who seduced my daughter and took her from me. And now …”

The Emperor raises an eyebrow. “You are sweating like a Kelpien in a stew pot. Are you aware of all I know, Lorca?”

 Her face is now a mask of cold rage. “You … killed … _my_ daughter.”

The Emperor’s hand comes to rest on the hilt of a longsword which hangs at her waist.

“Traitor!” she spits. “I would like to keep you in misery for the rest of your days, or cut you to pieces with my sword, but you do not deserve to live any longer—even in an agonizer booth. Those who serve you are also condemned to die. You have inspired such intense loyalty in them, just as you did to my Michael before you killed her. They cannot be trusted.” She nods to someone off screen.

“Shields up!” Lorca yells. The Buran is rocked by weapons fire.

“Captain, we are no match for—”

“Helm, warp us out of here! Do it! Fight, damn you!”

The ship leaps into warp, but Charon is right behind her, firing a horrendous barrage of torpedoes and phasers. Buran’s shields are holding. For now.

Landry comes over from Tactical, takes Lorca by the elbow, and starts to steer him off the bridge. The helm officer looks over her shoulder to see him leaving and steps up to the center of the bridge deck. Lorca nods to her, as if he’s decided this. “You have the conn.”

“We have one chance,” Landry says as they run through the passageway. “I’ll sound Abandon Ship.  Some of the crew … some may escape the Emperor’s phasers, but Buran …”

Gabriel finishes, “… is a loss.”

They stop at an alcove where he sees two escape pods.  Landry smacks her hand on a button and an alarm sounds. The ship slows to impulse power, and a male voice comes over the intercom. “Abandon ship. Abandon ship. All personnel, abandon ship.”

She unseals his escape pod, pulls Lorca toward her and kisses him passionately. He kisses her back. _Why not. It may be the last human contact either of us will ever have._

Landry goes to the next pod, pops its hatch, and looks at him, her dark eyes gleaming with ferocity and tears. “Live, Gabriel. Live, and conquer. I’ll find you if I can.”

He essays a smile, concerned for their survival. “Courage, Ellen.” Stepping in, sealing the hatch, he closes his eyes with hope, calling Katrina Cornwell’s face to mind, Kat smiling, outdoors, the scent of California redwoods in the mist.


	3. Dazed and Confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SonriaCat and LadyFangs for suggestions!

Gabriel Lorca comes to, blinking, reaching up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose and his brow bones.

_Head hurts like hell. What happened, where am I …? Oh …._

The lighting in here is lower than in any sickbay he’s ever been in. Night conditions?

A doctor appears. Civilian clothes, hard worn, but a traditional white coat and a bioscanner, which he’s waving over Lorca’s body. He’s a young guy, brown hair, brown eyes, with a cynical twist to his lips. “Doctor Leonard McCoy. Looks like you’re gonna live. I got some pain relievers but I‘ve gotta conserve them for now. Is it really bad?”

“Captain Gabriel Lorca. Got something cold I can put on my head?”

“Sure.” He turns to get something and presses a cold pack onto Lorca’s forehead. “You got yourself stunned on Prior’s World. We were down there to buy supplies and found you behind a bar in your underwear, half out of your mind. Welcome to our little ship. Where you from?”

“Earth. New Orleans. USA.”

“I’m from Georgia myself. Good to meet you. ‘Earth,’ you said?”

“Yeah.” Lorca holds up a hand, in a “stop” gesture. “Please. Can I just …”

McCoy nods, lowers the lights, and Lorca drops off to sleep.

.

Waking, he sees the doctor punching a wall comm and speaking briefly; he can’t hear the words. He feels muzzy _. I must have been stunned by a phaser then, not just knocked on the head. At least the headache’s lessened. A little._

“How ya feelin’?”

“Okay, I guess.” Lorca tries to sit up, winces at the sudden pressure in his head, and the doctor puts a hand on his chest.

“Forget it. I’m not releasing you for a little while yet.”

“Where am I?” _I’m sure as hell not on the Buran. But she … she was different, not my ship …_ the memory slides away, before he can recall more.

But now Lorca’s in civilian clothes. He can hardly think _._

An Andorian woman steps over to his bed, and Lorca’s stomach drops with shock. “Jhimal,” he breathes.

_But you died. You died a few years ago. Did you have a twin?_

McCoy smiles a little and says, “Meet our captain.”

“I am Captain Jhimal. Have we met before?”

“I’m Gabriel Lorca.”

A fleeting expression, and she resumes her poker face.

“You don’t remember me?”

“Hmmm. Right now I am here to ask _you_ questions.” She smiles; it has the same sinister air he remembers. She steps to the foot of his biobed, forcing him to squint down past his feet. She’s in shadow; he’s gently lit from above.

 _Old technique. You see me but I can’t see you. Just like my old friend Jhimal_.

“Are you familiar with Antica?”

“Yes,” he answers. “Hunters and farmers mostly, there are a few cities there with advanced technology. They’ve been warp capable for a few years now, but they and the Selayans are at war. Neither has a planetary …”

Jhimal waits. Finally she says, “You were going to say a planetary … what?”

Lorca has been weighing how much he should tell her and decides to communicate in very general terms.

“A planetary council.”

Jhimal bursts out laughing. “Did that stun knock out your memory? Neither planet is anywhere near doing such a thing.”

Lorca is frustrated; there is so much more to what’s going on than he can fathom. He decides on caution. “Well, my head hurts like hell, so maybe it did.”

“Dr McCoy tells me you are from ‘Earth’…  Just where is ‘Earth’?”

“Do you know Proxima Centauri?”

Jhimal inclines her head.

“My home system is a few light years from there.”

A pause. “Sol System, then.” Her antennae incline forward. “Which is ‘Earth’?”

“The naturally habitable planet.”

“Ah. The third planet. You don’t call it ‘Terra’?”

“That’s not our … not our common name for it.”

She walks up near the head of the bed to look coldly down at him. “Enough of this, General Lorca. Tell us what you were doing on Prior’s World.”

“What? I’m a ship’s captain, not a general. _Captain_ Gabriel Lorca.” And he decides to say, “I’m from the USS Buran, of the Federation Starfleet.”

Captain Jhimal just stares at him. “You believe what you’re saying.” She paces to the foot of the bed and back. “It’s quite likely that you were attacked on Prior’s World, General, and your brain was indeed damaged.”

Lorca sighs sharply. “I’m not a general. I am a captain in Starfleet. I’m from the United Federation of Planets, Starship Buran.” He sits up, putting both hands up to his head, which is again hurting like a bitch. It hurts to talk but he says, “Where the hell am I? And who are you, really?”

Jhimal and the doctor exchange a look.

She murmurs to the doctor, then moving toward the door, glances at Lorca and says, “We’ll speak again soon. The doctor has something for you.” 

McCoy walks over to him with a hypo to take some blood. Lorca winces, rubbing his arm. “Are all doctors bad at this?”

“Gaila’s better at it than I am, but she’s busy right now.” McCoy grins tightly and slaps another cold pack into his hand. “Put this under your head above the nape of your neck and lie down.” He gets a second pack and lays it across Lorca’s forehead. “Kirk wants to apologize for the ‘friendly fire’ stun, by the way. Good thing we grabbed you or you’d be dead.”

_On Prior’s World? The mellow sort of lawless place where I was hoping to score some dilithium? Oh what the hell is this …. _

The doctor gives him a hypospray this time, a sedative which goes right to work, and Lorca falls back to sleep.

.

In the dream, he’s skinnydipping with Kat, in one of their favorite spots; they’re getting a bit chilly in the water and swim over to each other, then hug, treading water. She smiles, that toothy grin he loves, her dimples on full display. He’s always liked the way her eyes have a spark of humor most of the time when she’s with him. And she is sexy as ever. More mature, more wrinkles, but he has the years and the wrinkles too. They wade out of the water, walk up to their blanket on the sand, and she sits in the middle of it, pulling him down as she lies back. Only their feet are sandy; Kat’s knees are at his sides, and she’s ready for him, pulling at his hips. “Patience,” he smiles. “All good things come in time.”

As usual she shakes her head, green eyes twinkling. “Well come here then,” and hugs him around his chest, kissing his lips, then his open mouth, and they break, looking deeply into each other’s eyes with small smiles of long familiarity and love; he draws a finger down her front and touches her below, her silkiness, the wet warmth; he curls two fingers inside of her, bringing them out, stroking, stroking … he’s watching her face in between kissing and nibbling the tips of her breasts, and hears a little mewl from her; moving, he enters her, pushing slowly into that incomparable heat; can there be a better feeling for a human? He’s saying “Mmmm,” deep in his throat, and Kat’s eyes close as she murmurs “Love you.”

He studies her; as he moves in her, deeply, slowly, she opens her mouth slightly, sometimes biting her lip, sometimes sighing; and as the intensity builds in his senses, his heart is pounding, he sees the line above Kat’s lightly freckled nose, the little wrinkles at the insides of her brows – that expression that tells him she’s really close – and he feels himself swelling inside her, she’s pressing her head back and making those little throaty _mmmhh_ sounds, and he moves more quickly and her sighs become explosive, and he moans, supremely happy as she tightens around him in pulses of orgasm and he comes, too, with a low cry. He moves as if to lie next to her and she says, “Stay a minute, I like to feel your weight on me sometimes, you know.” He slides his forearms under her shoulders and puts his face next to hers, gently kissing her cheeks, her lately wrinkled brow, her eyelids, down to her mouth. They love to kiss, and indulge themselves, light kisses, open-mouth slides, kisses with moaning, and liquid sounds, just some of the lovely things people can make together.

.

He wakes with a start. A young green-skinned woman with curly red hair and blue eyes is perched on the edge of his bed, wearing a bright green jumpsuit, and holding a bioscanner. “I’m Gaila,” she says. “I’m the engineer but I’m also one of the medics. Doc has to sleep sometimes!” Her smile is playful and sweet. “Doc wanted me to check on you and the captain wants to see you. And Jim wants to apologize.” She scans him. “How are you feeling?”

“My head doesn’t hurt so much now.”

“Do you want to sit up?”

He does, more slowly than usual, but there’s no longer an excess of pressure in his head.

“Okay, where do I go now?”

“Come over here and have a seat,” she says. _What a sensual walk. Well, she’s probably an Orion._ He doesn’t feel enveloped in sexual desire, so she must be on a pheromone suppression protocol.

“You’re Orion, right?”

“I am. Did my red hair throw you off?”

“I guess.”

“I’m very proud of it,” she smiles. “A few clans have red and blonde hair, so we like to think we’re distinctive, with our curls and all.”

“Well, it is something to be proud of,” he says, hoping he’s not overstepping any bounds. Doors squeak open and Gaila’s gaze shifts before she virtually bounces across the room. “Jim!” Kissing the young man on the cheek, she brings him over. He has eyes even more electric than Lorca’s own. Blue like the ice in a glacier, yet warm and friendly.

“Jim Kirk,” he says. “Sorry for the head shot. You moved right into my path of fire.”

“Bad luck for me.” Lorca hears the doors again, and Jhimal appears behind Kirk, who moves to one side. Gaila has gone across the small room to sort supplies.

“Captain Jhimal. Can you tell me anything about where … where I am?”

The Andorian’s eyes are very penetrating, just as “his” Jhimal’s were. “First, we have questions for you. We will connect you with a brain scanner to detect any lies. Do not lie to me. Do you understand?”

Lorca’s stomach tightens. Who knows what they’ll consider a lie, if he answers in a way as confused as he feels. “Yes, I understand, Captain.”

“Follow me,” she says. Jhimal, Kirk, and Lorca leave the Sickbay, followed by Gaila, and walk into a compartment next door to it.


	4. Home

There are testing machines; he recognizes a few, but they’re old. _So. Not the elite force here, not the group with infinite resources._

Gaila runs some wires to his forehead, temples, and hands, securing them with sticky pads. _Downright primitive medical resources, in fact._

“Test,” says Gaila. “What is your name?” She’s looking at a scanner.

“Captain Gabriel Lorca, Federation Starfleet, Serial Number—”

“What color are my eyes?”                                                                                                                          

“Blue.”

“What is the square root of 2,800?”

“Fifty-two point nine one five zero.”

“He’s testing out, Captain.”

“Good.” Jhimal comes over. Her walk is as it was when he knew her. A hint of menace in it, as if she could pounce and take a bite out of you without you noticing her approach. He looks up into her dark eyes. They’re cool, assessing. “Where do you come from?”

“Earth.”

“… What planet?”

“Earth. It’s part of the Sol System.”

Jhimal’s antennae curve forward. “The Sol System is where Terra is ... the Moon and Mars Colonies. What is ‘Earth’? ”

“It’s my home. It’s also called Terra, but not usually in Federation Standard.”

“Tell me about the Federation.” Jhimal begins pacing … prowling, more like.

“About a hundred years ago, when humans became warp-capable explorers, we met species more advanced than we were. Among them were Vulcans, Andorians, and Tellarites. Eventually we reached accords between our planetary groups …” He stops and looks at the captain, who has her back turned. At Kirk, who’s wearing a patient, but skeptical, expression. “Do you want me to go on?”

Jhimal whips around. “Yes, if you please. This is an intriguing story.”

“Sounds more like a fairy tale, if you ask me,” Kirk scoffs. “Accords? Seriously?”

Jhimal gives him a withering look. Raising his hands briefly, Kirk settles back into leaning against the wall. “Continue, Lorca,” she commands.

“We formed the United Federation of Planets in the year 2161. The founding members were United Earth, the Andorian Empire, Vulcan, and Tellar. Since that time, more planetary groups have joined with the founding members. We pledge to protect each other and agree on terms of trade. Starfleet is the protective and exploratory arm of the Federation. We are also a helping organization, saving people in damaged ships, helping people going through natural disasters and devastation from wars ….” He feels like he’s reciting in grammar school.

“So there are no conquerors in your Federation?”

Lorca’s eyebrows go up. “What? No, we negotiate with planets and make exchanges to get what we need from each other. The only conquerors are peoples who dislike the governing principles of the Federation. The Klingons and Romulans are two races of conquerors. We had a war with the Romulans about ninety years ago, and continue to battle with the Klingons here and there. We also defend colonies and planets against pirate organizations, the Orions chief among them.” He glances at Gaila as if to say “Sorry.”

“I know,” she says solemnly. “I escaped slavery.”

“That’s one thing that’s the same where I come from. We’ve rescued more than a few Orion slaves, mostly females.”

Gaila nods.

“These bad actors come into conflict with us if they try to contact or attack worlds that are not yet warp capable, peoples who may not want to be part of the Federation but are not harming others … often it’s planetary resources that draw them, but sometimes they want to capture slaves or start colonies. Starfleet keeps the peace and protects member and non-member worlds from ‘conquerors’. That also means enforcing the Prime Directive ... which dictates we shall not interfere with the natural development of any world’s civilization.”

Kirk chuckles, shaking his head. “Man, this sounds so good. Did my phaser stun totally scramble your brain?”

Lorca stares at him in Full Captain mode. Kirk subsides again and watches him, eyes glinting with humor, or disbelief.

Jhimal says, her antennae straight up, “I am questioning Lorca now. Perhaps you can do so later, if … I … think it’s necessary.”

“Sorry captain.”

.

An hour later, after Jhimal has finished her interview with Lorca, she invites him to the mess for a meal. They sit in an alcove. 

“We were low on supplies, Prior’sWorld is one of our regular stops. Is that why you were there?”

“We were there to buy some dilithium.”

“I thought your Federation used the barter and credit system.”

“Prior’sWorld isn’t a member. They don’t honor Federation credits there. We were going to barter medical supplies.”

Jhimal gazes at him. “You have an answer for everything, but for some reason I trust you. I want to tell you, though, you strongly resemble a Terran general, and he is also named Gabriel Lorca.”

He recalls some of his experience on the … ISS … Buran now; it’s coming back to him piece by piece.

“No. And he is missing, suspected of murdering the Emperor’s daughter. The Emperor will be searching for you and there are loyalists everywhere. If someone finds you, they won’t care where you come from. General Lorca has many followers who pretend loyalty to the Emperor. So I advise you to disguise yourself in some way.”

“He doesn’t have a beard or long hair, does he?”

Jhimal shakes her head.

“Then I will.”

The next evening at dinner they talk about the Terran Empire. Jhimal wants Lorca to know what the rebels are up against.

“The Empire does lots of business with pirates. The Emperor has often used them as spies, so when we discover the spies we kill them. Sometimes we impersonate pirate spies so we can get information on imperial ship movements and threats to our bases. We’ve become fairly good at it, but have had some close calls. We rescued Kirk at one of those times. He’s been a good asset.”

“He’s a nice guy. Very capable.”

Jhimal’s antennae curve inward; she nods with a slight smile. “Generally the Emperor pays spies and lets them go their way, but if any of them lies to Emperor Georgiou, they are usually dead moments after she finds out.”

“… Emperor Georgiou?”

“You look shocked, Gabriel.”

“I—yes, I am. Philippa and I attended Starfleet Academy together. She was a friend and fellow captain when I … when I left. She commanded the Shenzhou and I had the Buran.”

Jhimal shakes her head sadly. “Michael Burnham, the Emperor’s adopted daughter, had the Shenzhou until she disappeared, everyone thinks at Lorca’s hands. And Georgiou is … ‘Her Most Imperial Majesty, Mother of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Dominus of Qo’oNoS, Regina Andor; Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centaurius.’ So you can see why Lorca’s hide is so coveted. If they can bring him to the Emperor, their future might be secured as one of her honored officers.”

“That’s some hell of a title,” Lorca breathes. “Philippa was anything but ruthless … she was gentle, peaceful, a negotiator. A core of steel though.” He rubs his hand on his forehead.

“Perhaps you need to have a drink with Doctor McCoy,” Jhimal says. “Or an analgesic. You get a lot of headaches.”

“Never had so many problems with them … at home.”

“Gabriel.” The captain leans forward and puts a hand on his forearm. “You are at home here, now.”

He glances at her but lowers his gaze so she can’t see his eyes. _Here, never to see my Kat again. Oh god, I want to go back._

 

.

A couple of weeks later Lorca is fully integrated into the crew as Tactical Officer. That was Kirk’s position but now he has moved up to be the captain’s first officer. They don’t really use titles, except the term of respect for Captain Jhimal.

Kirk is quite likeable and likes to talk tactics with Lorca, seeing the former captain’s experience. Lorca sometimes shadows Gaila in Engineering, because that was one of his secondary tracks in the Academy. A good captain, he has always felt, knows every inch of their ship. She is a genius, and gets the most out of every system. It’s apparent that she and Jim have a relationship, so Lorca spends many evenings playing cards with the doctor, whose cynical humor is much like his own. And they both love good single malt whisky. McCoy’s tried to inveigle Lorca into sipping some bourbon, but Gabriel doesn’t care for it; if he wants a smoky flavor he goes for Scots whisky. Sometimes Jhimal joins them; sometimes she invites Lorca to the mess at odd hours so they can chat. As they did in the Academy, and Command Training School, he and Jhimal have a good rapport.

They’ve exchanged their life stories, and Jhimal’s extended family members are much like “the real Jhimal’s.” Some personalities differ slightly, but here, the brother she always argued with is a pirate and not a rebel like her. Whereas where Lorca comes from, Thival is somewhat the same, only kind of a grifter. Thival is not approved of in either place.

Lorca’s been pondering this home/here thing, and he and Gaila are inspecting some engineering components when he notices something strange. “This reading … it’s off.”

“The quantum signature? There’s nothing ‘off.’ The reading’s perfect,” Gaila says.

“There’s a variance though.”

She gives him a searching look. “No. There isn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, please tell me what you liked or what you feel could be improved.
> 
> Comments feed and inspire the writer! Please feed the writer :^)


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